


Shame

by Faith Wood (faithwood)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Hogwarts Eighth Year, M/M, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-16
Updated: 2012-03-16
Packaged: 2017-11-02 01:07:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/363332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faithwood/pseuds/Faith%20Wood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco can handle it, as long as they do it under the cover of darkness.  Broom cupboard sex. Some angst. 2nd person PoV.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shame

Cupboards are dark. Dark and stuffy and so narrow you can barely turn. It gets so hot in there you feel sweat pool at the base of your neck, and all you want to do is take off your shirt. You're uncomfortable and thirsty, because that's what heat does to you, but you don't leave. You just close your eyes and wait.

You hear the door open but you keep your eyes closed. You squeeze your eyelids tight and pretend you don't notice the darkness isn't absolute anymore. The door closes and a hand splays across your stomach, edges upwards to your chest, its touch hotter than your skin.

You know it's safe to open your eyes now, but you know what's coming, so you don't even bother. The lips touching yours are dry and hard, but you know how to melt them and make them supple. You use just the tip of your tongue because you're not used to giving anything; you just know how to challenge. You wait for him to deepen the kiss, which he does; his tongue slides against yours, slick and sure, and you have to remember to breathe through your nose. 

Your hand slides upwards, fingertips touching the warm scalp, burying into his hair, even though you know you're not supposed to explore, not supposed to _check_. You know who's kissing you, anyway. You know how he tastes, you know the scent of his shampoo, but you can't help yourself. The strands are a riotous mess, just long enough for you to wrap them around your fingers. Your thumb traces behind his ear and feels the cold touch of his glasses. 

You give yourself a moment. Just one moment of truth. He's here and he's real, and these are his lips you're kissing. You push the thought away and bury it in a corner of your mind, because there are things you aren't supposed to know, things you aren't supposed to do, things you are only allowed to think about.

So you think. You imagine. You pretend he's real and tell yourself he's not. This is nothing but a fantasy, the kind you have in your bed when you're half-asleep. The kind that's just yours and you know enough about Occlumency to keep it hidden. 

You don't tug on his tie and loosen the knot, you don't unbutton his shirt and touch his skin, you're not exploring the ridges of his body, the curve of his spine, the flat of his stomach. You only pretend you do; it's just a fantasy. You only imagine the soft sounds he makes, sighs and moans that follow the paths of your fingertips, that vibrate against your mouth because he's still kissing you.

You feel him rub against your thigh; your leg is trapped between his. His touch is searing. His tongue is still in your mouth and you trail your fingers along his waistband, thinking you want to feel that mouth elsewhere. But that's not what you've been fantasising about for hours before this meeting. 

You grope blindly and slide his zip down. Moments later, he's in your hand, warm and thick, a snug fit for your palm. You stroke him once and he stops kissing you; he pulls away to gasp.

You don't like to kneel; you don't want to kneel in front of him, but you want him in your mouth and you have little choice. You get down on your knees, let them hit the hard floor. Your eyes are open, but you can't see a thing. You can smell him, though; you can feel him. You feel him with your hand, you feel him with your lips, you taste him with your tongue. 

You don't think about the taste; you don't want to know if it's good or bad, because you suspect you're not supposed to like it but you're afraid you do. He twitches forward and enters your mouth. You hear yourself moan; he's hot and heavy on your tongue; your jaw already aches. He moves again, pulls out, slips in, and you feel trapped and used; you feel your cock pulse together with your heart. 

You wrap a hand around him, suck him in deeper and take control. You don't think, you don't try to please him, you're not listening to his gasps. This is for you and you just _do_ and feel. You move your head and you move your hand, you lick with your tongue and hollow your cheeks, you suck in the flavour and swallow it down. 

The scent of him grows stronger and he twitches in your mouth; his fingers are tugging on your hair. You graze his balls with your hand as you slip your finger behind them. You're not supposed to touch him there, you're not supposed to touch anyone there, but it's dark and it's just skin, wrinkled skin, bunched tightly together. You push against it, rub it with the tip of your finger and flavour explodes in your mouth. You're ready for it and you swallow, and you're disappointed when he no longer has anything to give.

You're pushed away before you want to let go. You feel something sticky smack against your chin, your saliva or his come. It doesn't matter because he pulls you on your feet and kisses you again. It's a hungry kiss, as hungry as his hands that tear at your shirt. He pulls off your clothes, leaves you standing with your pants and trousers hugging your lower thighs. You don't need him to clutch your hip and tug, you know you ought to turn around, just like he knows what you want him to do. You've shown him, asked without words.

He whispers a quiet spell and you press your cheek against the wooden wall. His touch is cool and slick, sliding along the crease of your arse. He finds what he's been looking for and you hold your breath as he breaches you. 

He's slow and careful, treating you like you're made of glass. You want to yell at him and tell him you're not, but you won't allow yourself to speak. You push back on his fingers, pull them deeper inside. Your hand wraps around your cock and you rest your forehead against the wall. 

His unhurried pace sweeps you away and you follow it blindly. Everything seems to slow down: your breathing, your heart rate, the strokes of your hand. He's touching something inside you and the world narrows, shrinks to nothing, and you panic and think you've been wrong and nothing except this is real. 

Pleasure rises and falls. Your hand is sticky and you're panting against the wall. His fingers are still inside you and you reach behind to shove them away.

You don't turn as you dress. You're facing the wall as you pull up your pants and trousers, then grope for your shirt and tie. 

You hear the rustle of clothing that's not your own and then a hand falls on your shoulder, its pressure light and warm. You think he maybe wants to kiss you but you can't let him. The sun is about to rise and the castle will wake and fill with noise. The morning light will reach even this dark space.

You wait for him to leave, and when he does, you count to one hundred in your mind. The sunbeams are already peeking through the cracks in the door when you exit. 

The brightness outside is a shock; Potter crouching on the floor is another. 

Potter's tying his shoelaces and looks up when you appear before him. "Filch's in the next corridor," he says, his smile as bright as the morning. "And my trainers are untied." He stands up and hesitates. "Sorry," he adds, shoves his hands into his pockets and lingers, hovers there with his lips puffy and red.

But that's not where you're looking. You're looking at the tie wrapped around his neck. You want to say something, but you never say anything and it's hard to find words. You've waited too long and he says, "Bye," then turns and leaves before you can stop him.

You don't look down at your shirt. You don't check to see if all your buttons are in the right holes and if your zip's still open. You run to your dormitory but somehow end up in the Great Hall.

You're the first to sit at the Slytherin table but others soon arrive. They stare at you, at first just two of them, then the others join them. They nudge each other's shoulders and point at your neck, they whisper and laugh, and frown at the Gryffindor table. 

This is what you were afraid of. Quiet snickers and hissing whispers, snide comments and disapproving frowns. Gossip spreading and reaching everyone's ears: your friends, your family, your father. 

You're still afraid; the tie around your neck is pulled tight, choking you, burning your skin, but you can't bear the thought of taking it off. 

You ignore everyone, including Potter. You don't dare to look at him for the rest of the day. You've showered and changed your clothes, you're wearing clean pants and a clean shirt, but Potter's tie is still wrapped around your neck. You ignore all questions and keep your head up; you disregard whisperings and open laughter. You think you want to cry but then you catch yourself smiling.

You're back in the cupboard after nightfall. Your eyes are closed and you're waiting to be kissed. The kiss comes, slides against your lips, and your fingers search in the dark to wrap around cold, silken fabric. You can't take it anymore. You have to _see_.

You pull away. Your hand trembles, as does your voice when you whisper, " _Lumos_."

The light defeats the darkness and you're no longer blind. Your tie is green, even greener now that it's wrapped around Potter's neck. It's as green as the eyes that stare at you and suddenly you never want to hide again. The world looks green and Potter looks yours.

You leave the light on and kiss him.

**Author's Note:**

> Also posted [here](http://faithwood.livejournal.com/274085.html) @ my LJ.


End file.
